


and if i'm on fire, you'll be made of ashes, too

by Dr_Roslin



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Again, Alternate Universe - 1960s, And I Can't Stress This Enough, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Devoted Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Divorce, Divorced anyway, F/M, HEA, HEA for days, HEA happens anyway, HEA is the plan, Leia has to watch, No Pregnancy, Post-Divorce, Remember, Rey Nobody, Rey Palpatine, Rey and Ben are dyads, Rey and Vader are in a cage match for Ben's soul, Safe to Read if Triggered by Pregnancy, Vader is an ass, We will see this through, Yet also and more importantly, based on a microfic, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Roslin/pseuds/Dr_Roslin
Summary: She waits for him in the smoky bar. Every night, she waits for him. It’s her fate to wait, even if she doesn’t do it gracefully. Even though she hates it, just like she hates the wedding china she broke the day he finally signed the divorce papers.She waits.How long can you love someone after they've let you go? How long can you resist them when they've never stopped loving you?
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Kylo Ren | Ben Solo
Comments: 20
Kudos: 35
Collections: Reyloween 2020





	1. Silver and Green

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the following microfic
>
>> “In canyons of steel-“ Rose’s voice drifts mournfully through the smoky bar.  
>    
>  “Of all the gin joints,” Finn whispers in Rey’s ear as she smiles. “You hate Coruscant. All silver, no green. After Ben, I figured you’d leave us.”  
>    
>  “I told him I’d wait for him here.”[#ReyloMicroFic](https://twitter.com/hashtag/ReyloMicroFic?src=hash&ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw) <https://t.co/EQc38hV5K8>
>> 
>> — Random Books of Known Origin (@RandomBks) [September 13, 2020](https://twitter.com/RandomBks/status/1305170188522926086?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw)
> 
> My contribution to Reyloween 2020: my version of a ghost story though I promise no actual spectres were injured during its making. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to wait for October and the spooky season - ghosts don't have to be see-through to be scary.

“In canyons of steel. They’re making me feel I’m home-”

Rose's voice drifts mournfully through the smoky bar, cutting through the haze as effortlessly as always. No one can turn a classic into a mournful lament like Rose Tico, her tiny frame belying her powerful voice and enormous talent.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the worlds,” Finn whispers in Rey’s ear as he sneaks up from behind to lean into her where she’s sitting, and she smiles at the way he teases her, angling her cheek for him to kiss hello. At least the night isn’t a total loss, with him and Rose here. She doesn’t miss the concern in his warm brown eyes but decides to ignore it. She’s not in the mood for tearful confessions tonight.

“Surprised to see you here,’ he continues, his voice somehow perfectly audible despite the ambient noise and Rose's soaring voice. ‘You hate Coruscant. You always have. It’s all silver, no green, you said. After Ben- I figured you’d leave us. Head out for greener pastures. Or, at least, friendlier ones.”

She knows what he’s thinking of, when he describes locales that way. Greener pastures, friendlier ones, ones rich with living, green life, with sunshine and rain and glorious vistas and seas that beat against the shore. Where the sun doesn't have to fight through the haze and no one has to know her first name or recognize the myriad implications of her last.

Where there are no ghosts to haunt her.

He knows enough to know she longs for those things. She knows herself well enough to know they aren’t in her cards, at least, not yet. Instead, she smiles at her old friend, trying to make it seem real.

“I told him I’d wait for him here.”

Here is this dive bar in the lower levels of the city that takes up the entire planet, the place where she and Rose and Finn met and made something of themselves. Here, where she and Rose became the most notable, and notorious, names in lounge singing in this corrupt government town and where Finn leveraged everything they owned for them to form a coalition to buy themselves a piece of the action. Here is where she first met Ben, when she stood on the stage and watched him move through the crowd effortlessly and had to concentrate on remembering the lyrics to a song she’d sang ten thousand times because she couldn’t stop staring at him, transfixed.

Here is where she’d met him, where the world had shifted on its axis and changed around her.

So, yes.

She’d told him she’d wait for him, here.

So, she did.

He’d told her he’d always find a way back to her. In those early days of their marriage, as they’d doubted everything but each other, as they’d struggled to remember there was a world that existed outside of his bed, every limb wrapped around each other and the only song the music of the traffic drifting through the open windows, he’d promised her that. She'd never have to fear being alone, he promised. He'd always be there for her, just as they would always find a way to be there for each other. He promised he'd always been there.

He promised he’d always find a way back to her.

And he did.

The day he brings his new fiancée to the club to see Rose sing, Rey’s sitting at a table in the back.

It’s still as dark as ever, in this smoky club where people of the social class both he and (now) she belong to almost never go, where the bright young things from that class like to go because they don’t belong, as did their predecessors before them, this favoured class of those who live in the silver and black towers of this city which never sleeps, the favourite playground of the elite each fall. Coruscant's elite ignore the neighbourhoods they drive through and the less fortunate they see and the social stigma of being looked down upon by their less “adventurous” peers in favour of frequenting the clubs with entrances in back alleys and poor ventilation and shabby furniture never fully sanitized so they can say they’ve seen the living legends of Coruscant’s underground scene, the artists and singers and sculptors they can claim to have discouvered after they become household names even at the highest levels of society. Those who live to push the limits of proper society and can therefore consider themselves daring and avant-garde.

Rey and Rose and Finn have seen them all before, so they smile and take the money from their old money ‘patrons’. Depending on who it is, sometimes they appreciate their interest in their craft and sometimes roll their eyes at their pretension and condescension. They never turn down their money, which is always welcome, but almost always turn down the invisible strings that come attached.

Ben Solo had never fallen into that category so they’d never treated him in quite that way, though he is insanely rich and he is famous and he does come from old money, the scion of a family so notorious, with connections that run so deep in this town that it's impossible to tell where they stop. Still, he’d never fallen into that category for the three of them. For a few minutes, at the beginning they may have been tempted to treat him that way, but it hadn’t lasted for long. No. They'd treated him as an irritant and then they'd treated him as a nemesis and then they'd treated him as a friend.

How they will treat him now only time will tell.

The day he walks back in to their club, him and the unwelcome baggage that trails in his wake, it's late, well past midnight, and the smoke has already taken over the small club, has for hours, really, and the opening acts, those newbies trying desperately to break into the business, have given way to the pros like Rose. It’s dark in the club and smoky and packed and it's hard to see more than five feet in front of you no matter how sharp your eyes were.

Despite that, despite the haze and the smoke and the lights that are set to atmosphere and which barely light the club, he sees Rey immediately, sitting at the small table in the back of the club with her martini, just as she does him. Sees who he’s decided to bring with him, to this place, their place, her place, and seethes a little, though she focuses instead on giving him nothing, molding her face instead into the gaze he’d once referred to as Artemis-in-Spring.

As the new arrivals walk over, as everyone decides to act the adult, to be civil, to be correct, Rey buries her feral need to rip Ben apart and scavenge the parts to build something new, something that might be of use to her. Rather than giving in to the impulse, though, she gives them nothing, choosing instead to sit back in her chair, back straight, sip her martini, contemplate the strip of lemon peel currently marinating in it and assesses her replacement, this girl she can tell immediately is everything she is not.

She’s beautiful, this slight girl, Ben’s match in in every way. Even with her four-inch heels she barely reaches his chin as he hovers over her protectively, her pale skin and dark hair perfectly coordinated to his, as if it had been planned, her delicate features forming a notable contrast to his fierce ones. Beautiful, brilliant and graceful is Bazine Natal, this accomplished scion of one of the First Order’s most notable families, and she has been pre-approved by Ben’s grandfather, Lord Vader, apparently, a feat Rey herself had never come close to achieving during her short marriage.

It’s a tidbit Ben’s new bride-to-be is quick to drop delicately during the short conversation that follows Ben’s awkward introductions. Rey, though, is quick to note the one item missing.

“Enjoy the moment while you can baby girl. I notice you’re not wearing Grandma Padme’s ring on your finger any more than I am.”

Her ex-husband looms over at Rey, in the moments after his fiancée’s departure, the table between them providing only the slightest of barriers as he glowers at the other half of his dyad, his eyes dark and hard in the dim light as he glowers at her.

“That was unkind, Rey. And uncalled for.”

She beats back the pain that stabs at her knowing she’s hurt him deliberately. It always been thus; she could feel his feelings almost as her own, which had been one reason they’d bonded so quickly and so deeply during their time together. It’s the nature of the dyad, always has been. What hurts him; hurts her, they both know this, even if it’s them hurting each other.

Still.

It may have been unkind, the way she’s treated this girl so eager to step into her shoes, which are still warm from the warmth of her feet.

“It was completely called for, as you are well aware.”

He sighs, rubbing his face irritability with the palm of his hand, a tell he rarely showed, even around her.

“We’ve been over this. It’s better this way, Rey, for everyone involved.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Sweet Cheeks.”

They’d had this argument before, over and over and over again, or at least over and over again when he’d deign to pick up the phone back when she’d still felt able to pick it up to call her. His assistant had gotten better, these last few months, at screening her calls.

She’s heard Dopheld Mitaka produce the rote answer that had been drilled into him so often by now that she’s almost sure she could enunciate it for him.

_I’m afraid Lord Ren is not available, my lady, but I will be sure to inform him of your call._

_Sure you will, Mitaka._

_And if I believe that you’ll sell me a bridge in Jakku._

She’s not beaten yet, though, and she’s no intention of giving in, confident she still has a few cards to play.

“I’ll pass your regards on to Leia, shall I?”

“Rey.”

“I mean, since you’re afraid to go near her,” she taunts gently, twisting the knife in the wound a little.

“She and my grandfather just have to work things out. I’ll see her then. It won’t be long.”

“She’s your mother, Ben.”

“Rey- “

“It’s only been what, six months?”

“I told you-"

“Vader. Yes. Has concerns about you visiting your _mother_ ,” she scoffs, finally losing her temper a bit at how he’s so willing to let his grandfather dictate his mother’s access to her only, _grown_ , son.

Even more, Leia wasn’t the only one Vader had expressed concerns in regards to Ben and they both knew it. His grandfather had been quite clear regarding his concerns in relation to the Coruscant street rat who had the habit of ‘clinging’ to the arm of his legacy grandson. She’s sure he’s continued to express his ‘concerns’, even with Ben's decision to file for divorce.

“My grandfather-"

“Peach of a family, you got there.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

It's a low blow and they both now it. There’s silence, then, and she can tell he regrets it immediately from the way he chews the inside of his lip. It’s as if he’s cut them, both, at the same time, with a knife so sharp it takes a moment for them both to sense the pain. The only family she’s ever known, with the possible exception of Leia, is currently in this club, it being made up of Rose and Finn and, for the briefest of most beautiful moments, the remarkable man sitting in front of her.

The fact that he’d sworn, in this very club, to always be that for her, to always be her family, only makes his comment more mean-spirited and she can see how he regrets it the moment it happens, as he’s let his formidable temper loose again, especially after all that he’d done to ensure he had control over it.

She can tell he regrets hurting her, just as he always had, even standing in the attorney’s office as he refused to speak to her or look her in the eye, instead focusing on the wall behind her as he had his lawyer tell her that she could have the house and the car and the jewels and the money promised in the pre-nuptial agreement (and even ultimately his parents), but she couldn’t have him.

He hadn’t like hurting her then and she knows, looking at him as he tries desperately to figure out the mysteries of the time-space continuum to travel back in time five minutes just to take back his words jabbing at her lack of familiar relationships, that he doesn’t like hurting her now. That he regrets it, that he wishes he could do anything to take it back, that he regrets hurting her even beyond how it hurts him as much.

She knows he regrets it as he only wants the best for her.

She could soothe him, with her words, with a smile, fake or not, with a gentle word to take the sting out. She could even, if she were gracious and loving and kind, pass him a convenient conversational tactic allowing him to back his way out of the pain they both know he’s just inflicted. She's always been the one most adept of soothing his pain and she could easily do so now, it is the work of a mere moment.

She doesn’t.

Because she doesn’t want to care how much he’s hurting.

She’s not here to make him feel better. That’s not her job, anymore.

“No. Obviously I wouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Good thing you ditched me then, save me from having to find out. You always were so considerate of my feelings.”

“Rey. Jesus, I’m-"

The bill’s paid, Rose’s set is done; there’s no reason for her to stick around here tonight. She pushes back her chair to get up and watches disinterestedly as he pushes back his chair politely to do the same even as he continues to glare at her. He always was a gentleman, she thought, his mother raised him well. She’ll have to remind Leia about that when she sees her.

At least she gets the last word as she heads for the door, tossing her words back at him over her shoulder.

“See you around, Baby Cakes.”

It’s funny, she’d always feared he’d leave her, eventually, realize he could do better than a Coruscant street rat who’d raised herself up through nothing but a talent for the song and the power of sheer will.

She’d just never thought it would be due to the reappearance of his long-lost legacy.

She reflects on fate as she hails a cab to take her home, too tired to walk through the cool air of the dark city the way she’d planned. Despite everything she’d feared, it turned out that one could, in fact, keep living after the worst happened. Her worst fears had come true, the other half of her soul had left her, in the most decisive way possible. Even seeing him tonight, alive and seemingly happy, hadn’t been enough to soothe the way he’s missing from her very being. Every day she wakes up, he’s not there. Every day she goes through her normal routine, proceeds about her business, he’s not there, choosing instead, every day, to spend his time and his energy and his love with people who wish only to use him.

His choice, she reminds herself, again and again, but it never helps. She just wants him, safe and happy and loved, everything she knows he is not currently.

So, she stays, in this city that she’s never enjoyed and could easily leave, waiting for something she’s not even sure exists, anymore. Waits for him, to come back for her, as he’d always sworn he would, back before she knew that heartbreak did in fact exist. It is her fate, she knows it well, to wait for him; it is not her fate to accept do it passively or without full knowledge of how it might all be in vain. He seems determined to forget her, to move on despite his promises of better days. She cannot help but wait, even knowing it might all be in vain. She cannot help herself.

She still has hope, as Leia reminds her every day, still has to have hope, somehow, even if she couldn’t see how this might all work out. So, she waits, just as his mother does. She’s good at waiting, has always been, and as she’s careful to remind Leia, waiting is something that can be improved with practice.

It also helps when one subsists on nothing but sheer rage.

It’s a rage only stoked higher when her lawyer calls her the next day to inform her that her erstwhile husband had finally signed the divorce papers that he’d initiated the filing of and that he’d nonetheless been sitting on this past year.

There’s a note from him attached to the copy in the thick envelope her lawyer sends her (forwarded from his lawyer to ensure that their rule of non-contact remains intact), and she would cry, when she reads it, if it weren’t for the fact that she’s currently occupied breaking a number the plates from his (formerly) favourite dish set, smashing them on the tile floor of their (former) home one by one with silent screams of rage. She’d been careful to put on shoes first, to ensure her feet are protected, though she almost wishes she hadn’t, almost wished that she would be free to feel the way the ceramic plates broke around her bare toes. Stepping on the broken crookery would (almost) have allowed her to express the way her heart has shattered and her sight has greyed with rage.

There’s only one line on the creamy folded note he’d sent with the papers, the heavy stationery heavy in her hand as she pulls it from where it had been tucked neatly into the small envelope inscribed with her name. She would have recognized his handwriting anywhere, his clean masculine script recognizable enough to her that she’d long been able to spot it from across a room.

There’s only one line to the note, not even his signature, not even a salutation, not even a goodbye, just one line, nonetheless powerful enough to send her into a tizzy, the rage and the pain stealing her breath and sending her blood pounding through her veins.

_Now you’ll finally be free of me._

Jackass.

As if she’ll ever be free of this pain.

As if he could ever seriously believe that moving past this pain could ever be possible.


	2. Coruscant Frosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have upped the chapter count. 
> 
> I know, I know, you all have *shocked* faces.

Rey Niima was the type of girl who kept society matrons up at night. Those who don’t worry about their husbands with nightclub singers worry about their sons. Although she’s new to Coruscant, it’s not long before the whispers start, about her beauty, about her voice.

Before long, the old Takodana club, world-renowned but long past it’s prime, is once again _the_ hot spot in town for the younger society set. They flock to the club to watch Rey and her fellow headliner Rose Tico, each of them dynamos with their own unique style, perform, to witness the magic for themselves, and to watch each other. To see and be seen, to flirt, to party, to distract themselves from the expectations of their elders, their families and their social set. 

Rey and Rose soak up their attention and the media notoriety it brings, soak it up along with (after they join with Finn to buy out the club from old Maz Kanata), the cash their overly privileged clientele pour into their coffers. Finn, Maz’s prodigy of a manager, manipulates every ounce of his performers’ new fame, and soon all three of them have more money in the bank then they’d ever thought possible, even with the improvements they make to the club.

And still, the rich and notorious pour into the club, soaking up the high-end liquor and atmosphere and worshipping at the feet of the Incomparable Sopranos of the Outer Worlds.

Neither of them lacks for admirers.

Rose with her petite frame, pitch-black hair and fierce eyes, her technical grasp of her craft hidden underneath her powerful soaring voice and perfect pitch. She favours the classics, and the nights she performs are notable for the packed dance floor, as every couple in the room somehow finds their way onto the dance floor.

The more her admirers present her with every gift imaginable, the gift boxes filled with furs and jewels and flowers spilling out of her dressing room, the more she laughs in their faces, turning down every attempt to lure her into accepting anything more lingering than a drink, and if they are very, very lucky, dinner.

Her admirers’ try very, very hard to stay in her good graces, having seen what happens when her good opinion is lost.

(He comes to the club every night, tall, redheaded and lanky, and he might as well be furniture for as much attention as she pays him, as he sits there drinking scotch after scotch while she sends back unopened the champagne he sends her way.)

In contrast to Rose, when Rey sings, her audience sits frozen in their seats. The purists who visit the club declare her technique lacking and, self-taught, she improvises a great deal more than her partner. It doesn’t seem to matter. Her voice simply overtakes anyone she deigns to grace with it.

Unlike Rose, she doesn’t laugh in her admirers’ faces when they present her with gifts, but she is extremely picky about what she accepts, choosing only the most priceless and rare of trinkets from a select group.

She mostly ignores them after, acknowledging their existence if they are lucky, while they worship at her dainty feet. Sonnet after sonnet pays homage to her tall, slender frame, doe-eyed looks, dark brown hair and fine features. She ignores it all, spending her time exclusively with Rose and Finn.

The rumour is that she’s bewitched half of the Upper East side.

But Ben Solo has no intention of falling prey to her wiles.

When the rumours about Han Solo having been bewitched by a little side piece over on the wrong side of town started, Ben had laughed, loudly and openly. He knew immediately that the rumours had more to do with the continuing fascination of high society with his parents’ unorthodox marriage than it did with any wandering hands on Han’s part. His father may be dumb, but he wasn’t stupid. Even if he spent every night in Takodana, the old flyboy would not more cheat on his mother than he would take up fly fishing.

It stirred his curiosity, the idea of a woman remarkable enough to have caught his fathers’ eye, but more than that he could care less. He had too much on his plate to worry about society’s fascination with the denizen of their newest playground.

When the rumours started about whether Leia Organa had decided to join Han and the lounge singer in an unholy orgy in a rented apartment downtown, Ben laughed so hard his personal assistant was worried he might have a stroke and ran to get the company physician. 

‘I’m fine, Mitaka,’ he told him, waving him off.

He had the physician check him out anyway, Ben still chuckling at the imagery. Unorthodox his parents’ marriage might be, but they’d only had eyes for each other, or at least they had since they’d first met.

Yet, the rumour, no matter how ridiculous, finally decided him. He had to meet the woman who could inspire these stories.

He was entirely unprepared for the way he forgot how to breathe the moment he locked eyes with her, staring up at her as she performed on stage as he walked in. He was ashamed to admit he followed her around like a puppy that night, trying to find a discreet way to introduce himself and half wishing he’d come a night his parents were going to be there so they could have done it for them.

Somehow, he pisses her off the moment he opens his big, fat mouth. It’s a talent, he thinks.

He can’t help it, though. He comes to the club every night after that, trying, again and again, to figure out how to speak to her without angering her on the first sentence.

The first week, it’s one sentence. By the end of the second, it’s two. By the end of the month, they can usually have actual conversations, if limited ones, that don’t end with her stomping off declaring him irredeemable.

If this continues, he might manage to ask her out by the time he turns 70.

She never ignores him, though.

***

Rey had fallen for Ben Solo the moment she’d met him.

It’s too bad, he’s such a shit, but he’s insanely good looking and he never bores her. Still.

That night they met, his tie clip likely cost more than her rent and he practically stank of family legacy. (He’d tried himself with the Kylo Ren pseudonym she heard he used a lot, which had to be the dumbest thing she’d ever heard, especially given how much he looks like his father and has his mother’s eyes.) Still, as much as she enjoys Han and Leia’s company, she’s not dumb enough to ignore the warning signs.

Still.

By the time they were three drinks in, she’d started to forget why she was ignoring the attraction and Ben had started looking at her with wary appreciation.

It could have been a result of the fact that she’d made it clear she was having none of his shit.

‘Why you little witch-‘

She’d smirked.

“What, you worried I’ll slip a love potion in your drink, ‘Kylo’?”

“You’re more likely to hex me,” he responds, smirking, but he doesn’t look away.

They fight more often than they flirt.

“You’ve got the wrong Solo, Sweetheart. My dad’s the one who believes in hooky superstitions and love potions, not me.”

“Oh, I know. No imagination, that’s your problem.”

“Think so?” He gifts her a crooked smile as his eyes linger. “Because believe me, I’m imagining plenty right about now.”

She imagines he is. The problem, from her point of view, is that she is, too.

She can’t deny she finds it hard to walk away, which is why she finds herself in his car at the end of the night, though she blames her impractical outerwear and an unforeseen winter storm.

It’s lovely, her evening cloak, made of the softest and finest of velvets in the deepest of emerald greens, a treasured find from the high-end consignment store in Coruscant’s premier shopping district.

She’d sacrificed a meal a day the month she bought it. It had been worth it.

She never regretted it, considered it an investment in her career in fact, given the club’s clientele, but she shivers every time she wears it. Lovely it may be; warm it is not. It was designed for someone to pop gracefully in and out of a town car, not hike from the subway.

When she joked with Rose and Finn that Coruscant was too silver and not enough green, she didn’t just mean the glass and steel buildings.

Frost in the city lingered, and given the shortness of the summer season, lingered for far too long. She hasn’t been warm since she got here.

The city may be where she can best pursue her dreams; it’s not where she belongs. It’s the journey, not the destination. She dreams of the day she can sojourn to (literally) greener pastures, where the sun can warm her bones instead of taunting her, shining off the frost.

In the meantime, she freezes in her lovely evening cloak, freezes in her walk-up apartment, freezes on the subway.

So as much as he annoys her that night, as he offers to drive her home, she hesitates for less than .5 seconds before her pragmatic heart convinces her to accept.

He’s the perfect gentleman, as to be expected, offering her no more than a safe and warm ride home, and he almost manages to hide his worried frown when he sees her walk-up. She frowns a bit in return, warning him off. She could move, is more than able to afford a nice apartment, one in a nicer part of town. She can’t seem to justify spending the extra money. She likes seeing the money in her nest-egg build up a little more each day, and, besides, she’s comfortable, enough here.

If it weren’t so bloody cold.

It’s warm in Ben’s town car, his body heat filling the small backseat and keeping her toastier even than the heater radiating through the vents. His driver is the epitome of discreet, keeping his eyes on the road and then straight ahead, pretending he can neither hear nor see them, and she’s warm and at ease and strangely reluctant to get out of the car.

He walks her to her door when she eventually does, bussing her cheek in goodbye, and she has the strangest feeling when he’s finally gone.

Almost as if she missed him.

***

It takes diligence, effort, to worm his way in. She’s never sure why he’s so invested, but he is, so he does. He wears away at her, with care and kindness. She lets him drive her home. More and more, she bends and gives in to the urge to let him take care of her a little; to let him look out for her, to drive her home on those frosty winter days which appear with regularity as the calendar changes. Let’s him wrap her in the warmth of his town car and carefully take through the city streets to her small flat. Let’s him drive her home on days she’s so cold it’s hard to think. On days when the cold misty mornings fade into frosty afternoons, frigid nights.

Days when she’s cold from the very moment she wakes and even as she sleeps. Nights she’s so cold, she dreams of shivering in the dark.

Nights she wakes, thinking of his laugh and how it warms her, sometimes.

Nights she lets the rage at the inevitable warm her.

Until one night she can’t remember why she resists.

Why she doesn’t take the heat, standing in front of her, and use it to warm her, until she’s sated. Finally, she gives up. She can’t take it anymore.

 _Just a taste_ , she promises herself.

_Just a little._

_Just one night._

She can handle that, right?

“Hey, Pretty Boy.”

Coming up behind him, she manages to surprise him, which would please her if she wasn’t aware of how weak she was, just looking at him. It was just that he looked so good, she thought sometimes, just the fault of his tailor whom she was sure was the most exclusive in the city. True, his suit was beautiful, bespoke and tailored to perfection, its rich dark charcoal grey fabric and exquisite cut showcasing every inch of his long, lean frame and broad shoulders.

But, no, she can’t lie. She can’t blame the suit.

She’s weak all by herself.

It would probably make more sense to blame the multiple glasses of champagne she’d downed or the lingering sadness following Rose’s recent announcement from earlier that night. As happy as she is for her friend, she can't help but be jealous, not for the massive diamond on her finger - _so ostentatious, isn't it? Rose had whispered in her ear. It's just I love how happy he is when it sparkles on my finger_ \- but for the sense of belonging it represents. The joy in Rose's eye as she looks at her fiancé. The way her gaze softens by inches as he makes his way across the room.

Rey couldn't lie to herself forever. She above all knew the truth. It wasn’t the booze or the sharp suit or the melancholy knowing Rose is moving forward with her life that makes her look for Ben across the crowded, smokey room.

She knows it’s him.

He’s towering over her, politely leaning in to hear her, the broad shoulders of his massive frame blocking out the room. She can feel the body heat radiating off of him. Feel how he would hold off the mist and frost and the cold it brings, feel how he would hold it off from sinking into her bones.

She hates it, how much she loves this unexpected feeling.

Of wanting.

Without thinking about it much, she decides to take it on it on him, her nearest, and thus easiest, target. It’s almost too easy; how much it’s his fault.

At the very least, he should pay a penance in return; he’s hers, and she’s going to take what she’s owed. Smiling down at her with his stupid, crooked grin, his dimples flashing, he’s no idea how deep he’s in. He offers to drive her home again, her oblivious prey, talking of ice and subway delays, and she pounces, digging her teeth into the neck he’s left so carelessly vulnerable.

 _Your car is toasty,_ she whispers in his ear, _with you in to keep me warm. The question is, is your bed? Big enough for two? Can you keep it warm enough for me to stay?_

It throws him, a minute, and she wonders if she’s lost him, looking at the sadness in his eyes, but he rallies.

 _It’s a California King,_ he tells her. _And I promise that as long as you’re in it, you will want for nothing._

_And, as I’ve told you, whether you’re in my bed or not, I want nothing more to make it my life’s work to ensure you never want for anything ever again. If you’d only let me._

_Whether you want me there in your life or not._

When she wakes the next morning, in that bed, alone and untouched but warm underneath a mountain of cashmere, and watches the mist of the frosty winter morning blanket the city, she wonders why it is that it’s that truth which scares her the most.


	3. And Coruscant Winters

Not even wealth the likes of which the Solos and Organas are blessed with is capable of keeping away the sting of Coruscant city winters.

Even the fabled Skywalker fortune wouldn’t be able to do that, Rey imagines, though she’d heard rumors that Anakin Skywalker, Lord Vader, had tried things equally as ridiculous. Quite mad, they said he was, and power-hungry with it. She counted it a blessing that it was unlikely she’d ever find out herself. Other than Ben’s uncle Luke, Leia’s twin brother - whom she found a bit mad himself, if in a more benign way, during the one or two times she'd met him - the remainder of the family was resolute in avoiding Vader whenever possible. Even Ben, his only grandchild, hadn’t seen him since he’d still been in diapers.

Of Ben's grandmother, Padme Amidala, no one ever really spoke. Rey knew she'd beautiful and brilliant and powerful, but beyond a few photos, it was hard to tell what remained of her legacy, and Rey remained too intimidated to ask. Yet. 

_It was early days_ , she reminded herself. There was plenty of time, she consoled herself, time to untangle all the threads that wove themselves into the legacy that seemed to linger in the air when Ben found himself among family. 

Rey had never asked Leia about the determination of the older members of Ben's family to avoid Vader, but she suspects it was at her insistence. There was something in Leia Organa’s voice when she spoke of her father that made Rey think there was bad blood there, bad blood of a type that couldn’t be fixed with such simple things as apologies and promises. Bad blood that could only be forgiven, if not forgotten, by remorse and hard work and a willingness to bend. A willingness to listen.

From what Rey knew of Vader, that was never going to be him.

She could only hope Ben would be as resolute in his resistance to Vader’s blandishments should he ever come knocking on their door. More and more, she finds she likes the way his family has come together to welcome her into their midst. More and more, she worries about the rumours of Vader which circulate through Coruscant high society. More and more he feels like a ghost, waiting in the wings to haunt them.

More and more, she wonders why she waited so long to take Ben’s hand.

More and more, she worried she'd waited too long.

He keeps finding little ways to seduce her, does Ben.

Even his generational wealth can’t keep away the sting of winter. Even he cannot be constantly at her side to ward it off with the heat of his massive embrace. Nevertheless, he finds ways to lessen it. The car waiting at the stage door. The winter furs. The way he fusses over her in the car, arranging her car coat to his strict specifications, all his efforts meant to ensure her comfort on their short drive home.

It's hard to resist, that type of care. Hard to resist the ways in which he expresses his care; in service, in gifts. The final straw, she's sure, is the one she hadn't expected.

The highly practical and deeply ugly winter boots, which come complete with rubber soles and removable liners, their cardboard box wrapped in foil paper like the treasure they were, waiting for her in her dressing room one day following her last set. She’d made a sound she wasn’t entirely sure was human when she’d opened that box, finding those boots instead of the usual beautiful frivolities she was normally gifted with. She should have known better. If there was one trait of this man she’d fallen in love with first, it was how he _listened_.

The glint in his eyes as she’d walked out the door in those boots to find him waiting, her fashionable and expensive high heels with their red soles laying discarded and forgotten on the floor of her dressing room, the way he’d smiled as he saw her small feet wrapped warmly in his gift…

She wasn’t sure she’d ever get over that. 

Surprising absolutely no one, she’d never gone back to her old apartment after that first night, continuing instead to sleep in that warm bed that overlooked the city, buried under the mound of blankets, sleeping in the warmth and comfort of his care. The day after she’d told him she’d stay, the sum total of her material possessions had magically found their way into his suite – now hers – without her even needing to make the arrangements.

(She’d much enjoyed calling Plutt to personally terminate her lease, though. She’d only found out later that Ben had bought the building from under him, before investing tens of thousands to renovate it and bring it up to code, starting with the heating.)

She slept alone in Ben's bed, as she had that first night, for as long as she could stand it.

Though it was clearly the master bedroom, clearly his room, his personal touches everywhere, his clothes in the massive closet, his toiletries in the ensuite bathroom, still she slept alone. Though they lived together, though she saw him every day, ate with him every day, laughed with him every day, she never saw him less than put together any more than she ever saw him dress. She never knew where he slept – though she assumed there was a guest bedroom – never caught him wandering into her space reaching for necessities or a suit. It was just, one day her clothes hung alongside his, her dresses next to his suits, her (much smaller) shoe collection ranged alongside his, her socks and underwear neatly arranged in the drawer next to his.

‘Good night, Ben,’ she’d tell him, on her way to sleep safe in his bed, late at night, after they’d spent longer than they should talk as he tempted her with a late dinner.

‘Good night, Rey,’ he’d respond, fully dressed, though slightly rumbled, as she walked by, her hand just avoiding reaching out to grasp his massive digits.

He was mostly gone first thing in the morning, already at the office, though he almost ended up at the club later, formally attired and fully kitted for an evening out. Those mornings she wandered out for coffee and managed to catch him, she’d mostly find him in shirt sleeves and dress pants, the only concession to the informality of being at home the way he walked over in stockinged feet to greet her with a soft kiss that brushed across her cheek. He'd leave for the office, most days, shortly thereafter, properly dressed and warmly wrapped in his suit, the rubber over-soles to his dress shoes and the cashmere overcoat his only concession to the winter chill.

She made it a week before she was unable to resist accessorizing him with an emerald green wool scarf to set off his colouring and black leather gloves to warm his long fingers. She left them in the brown paper bag from the exclusive department store that Rose had recommended, added the house slippers that she'd bought on a whim, wrapped a ribbon around the handle of the bag and tried to ignore how his eyes burned into hers with what looked like hunger and joy as he opened it. 

She wondered where he slept.

She wondered when.

Increasingly, she wondered if he might want to join her, in his bed.

Increasingly, she wondered what he might do, with her, there.

Seemingly ready to wait forever, for her, Ben Solo proved to be her kryptonite.

The more Society talked, behind their backs and in front of her, of the way she’d moved into such rarefied air so quickly, of the way she seemingly had him, and his parents, wrapped around her little finger, of the way they were clearly involved in some sort of affair, the more she wanted to spit in the eye of everyone who looked at him anything less than kindness. The more they talked, the more they lowered their eyes and changed the conversation as she, and Ben, entered a room, the more she wanted to claim this gentle, patient bear of a man. 

The more she realized it was inevitable. Had been, really, since he looked at her with soft, gentle eyes and courted her with boots instead of diamonds.

The day Leia invites them to join her and Han at the gala opening of the opera season that April, she says yes, knowing the entire time it would mean the end of this limbo she’d backed them into. 

***

The Coruscant Opera House’s practice of shaming late arrivals, though unofficial, is well known among its adherents.

It wasn't at all subtle, their disdain regarding latecomers, as they came up with original and innovative ways to shame all those unable to read a clock. 

As the usher makes a show of escorting Rey Niima and Ben Solo down the centre aisle to their seats in front, as his flashlight sweeps obnoxiously across the massive auditorium as heads swivel, Rey can’t help but wonder if her lover had done it deliberately.

 _Look_ , their arrival seems to scream to anyone watching. 

_She's choosing to walk in on my arm. Not yours. You want to gossip behind her back? You want to level snark at her face? Do it now. Do it to_ my _face. We’re here; we’re not going anywhere._

_If anyone should be embarrassed, it should be you._

Han stands and moves into the aisle decorously as they arrive, despite their lateness, despite the hisses from the people in the row behind them. He waited patiently, standing with the utmost courtesy, his lanky frame making a statement as clear as his son's had done, as Ben settles Rey solicitously in the seat next to his mother. Only once Rey is settled in her seat, only then, do both men take their places to sit, turning their attention to events on the stage. As if this had happened a million times, Ben Solo escorting a young woman, this particular young woman, to the Opera. As if he fully intended that it would happen a million times more.

Leia reaches over discreetly and squeezes her hand in support and welcome, but Rey can’t take her eyes off Ben’s profile as he ignores the buzz that lingers in the large auditorium. He's not alone in that, his parents do the same, focusing on the stage as the opera begins, and after a moment, she does the same, watching as the action begins, though she sees none of it. She only startles from her revelry as Ben claims her other hand, holding it calmly yet firmly, his warm palm dwarfing her own as his broad shoulders tempt her to rest her head. 

_Fuck_ , she thinks, the realization sinking in.

_I’m well and truly in love with him._

That night when Ben rises with her following their nightcaps in the living room of his, no, _their_ , apartment, when she tells him it’s time for bed, as he waits quietly for her to take her leave, to proceed to her lonely, if warm, bed alone, she instead reaches out to take his hand.

And leads him to their bed.

The emerald green dress she’d worn that night slips easily off her as he kisses her, the zipper sliding down with ease under her fingers and the draped shoulder over her right shoulder falling down in response. It’s easy then, to lean into his massive frame, towering over her more than usual without the height of her customary high heels, which still lay where she’d left them as they'd walked in, laying at the entrance to the penthouse.

She’s tall, has been her entire adult life, and has always enjoyed the sense of presence it gives her, has never longed for this feeling; of being protected and vulnerable. She’d never imagined how much she could love it, this feeling. It should be illegal, just how much she loves it. She has to force herself to concentrate on understanding what he’s saying.

‘Rey,’ he’s muttering as he kisses her, his deep voice muffled against her lips as she claims his.

‘Please,’ he begs, even as he finds the pulse that hammers behind her left ear, his lips marking the territory as his own, his clever fingers having made short work of the hair that had fallen from her simple updo, brushing aside her dangling earrings to make room for his warm breath on her neck.

‘Please?’

She’s wrapped so tight around him she can barely tell, where she ends, where he begins, his arms wrapped so tight around her, her limbs entangled so perfectly with his.

Dispensing easily with the buttons of his dress shirt despite the trembling in her fingertips, she finds those magical shoulders bare for the first time and fixates on the moles that scatter across it. It's too tempting to resist, so she doesn't, laying the lightest of kisses across every one she can reach, watching as he bites his lip in nerves and pleasure, pleased with herself and the way he the muscles tremble under the softness of his jaw.

‘Please. I can’t – not unless… Rey. I need to stay.’

She hears it, with the plea in his voice.

_I’m not strong enough to walk away._

_Let me stay._

_Don’t play with me_ , he’s telling her. _If you want this, let me in._

He can't resist, seemingly, the way she presses into him, wraps her body around and claims him, can't resist all that she's offering, but he's trying. He's begging. Begging her to be kind. To take his heart if she's going to take his body, too.

The realization still burning in her chest, of his feelings, of hers, she bows to the inevitable and lets him in.

‘Stay.’

He lifts her up then, at her words, as the dress pools around where her feet had been, discarded on the floor, and carries her like a queen, depositing her to lay in the centre of the bed, worshiping her with his lips and his heart and his body, as she arches under his weight and cries his name.

The next morning, when she wakes, in his bed, wrapped in his arms, every part of her body safe in the embrace of every part of his, warm underneath a mountain of cashmere and his heat, his arms wrapped around her as is she might disappear in the night, as she watches the mist of the frosty spring morning blanket the city, she wonders if that’s why she hesitated so long.

Because she’d always known. The morning she wakes in their bed with him pressed along every inch of her, she knows she’s never again going to wake alone.


	4. Golden Springs and Auburn Autumns

They are forced to leave their bed, eventually, are forced to rejoin the world, and though only a dozen of hours have passed, it is as if the world they greet is new. The complications which she had feared seemed to have melted away in their absence. Walking into the club hand in hand, joining in at every one of Ben’s family functions, joking with his mother in the kitchen during holidays as they watch Han and Ben bicker over the proper seasoning of the traditional meal, all of this she welcomes, even as the reassuring feel of Ben’s hand, heavy on the small of her back, provides a warm anchor as he escorts her to the select society and cultural events they frequent.

By the time of the Tico-Armitage wedding that fall, which has quickly become the event of the season, it’s as if they’ve always spent every waking hour in each other’s arms. It's as if they'd always walked hand-in-hand through every door and stayed side-by-side everywhere they go. It's as if she was born with his sturdy arm wrapped firmly around her waist; it's as if he was made to lean down to accept the gentle caress of her lips grazing his cheek. As if he's always been there to guard her heart and warm her feet. As if she's always known she could feel this light, in her heart, in her soul. 

It’s as if this relationship, this connection is everything that was meant to be.

‘I’ll wait for you, here, always,’ she tells him, sometimes, late at night, as they cuddle in their bed that overlooks the city, somehow so much more welcoming in the gentle twilight of the autumn, and they catch their respective breaths from exertion and feeling. 

His response is always the same.

‘I’m never leaving. And I’d always find my way back to you, in the end. No matter what.’

He’s true to his word, and determined with it, tying strings to connect them as quickly and as thoroughly and as tightly as he can. His family, all of it, his moody uncle and outgoing parents and the old family friends they’ve made over half a decade in this city, are soon flocking to bask in the reflection of their joy. Her family, that small coterie of Rose and Finn and, yes, even Armitage, soon wrap Ben in their tight circle, and she’s never been as happy as she is watching them form a protective, loving, laughter-filled network to support and buoy them as they find a way to make a new family, her and Ben.

Of the entirety of their small social circle, made up of loving family and friends, only Lord Vader is a concern, though she’s certain it’s one they can overcome, given enough time. The first time she meets him – after what Leia had referred to a ‘Royal Summons’ though she was careful not to do so within Ben’s earshot – it’s clear, to her at least, that Ben is seeking her acceptance of Anakin Skywalker, with this meeting, and not the other way around.

Still. 

She cannot feel at ease in his presence and she cannot feel at ease the way she feels the shift in the air as he inserts himself as a larger shadow in his grandson's life.

The day they are to have lunch in Coruscant’s most exclusive watering hole, as the waiter ushers her deferentially to their table and she finds Vader seated at his grandson’s side -

She wants to claw off the older man’s face.

It doesn’t matter, she tries to reassure herself. She’s already won. This is merely Ben’s attempt to ensure all is out in the open, all parties connected. She knows, that to some degree, that he wishes for a closer relationship with his grandfather, that he wonders at his legacy. Knows he has an almost pathological desire to stitch his family – his entire family – back together. To find a purpose for them all. To have them all as one. 

Knows it occupies his mind more and more as they work to forge a future of their own.

In the meantime, Vader can look down his nose at her all he wants; she sees right through him. He may be able to fool others, but it is as clear as the nose on her face that Vader’s obsequious concern for Ben is as fake as the costume jewelry she’d once worn.

Effortlessly, she assumes the fake smile she’d perfected those first few months in Coruscant.

“Lord Vader. Such a pleasure to meet you.”

She busses her lover’s cheek, openly claiming him as both men stand and Ben seats her solicitously at the table, sliding her chair forward for her, drifting his fingers over the nape of her neck where it’s exposed by her updo as he does so. It’s not a kiss, Ben's touch, but it might as well be, the way he touches her, the way he cares for her, and she uses it to steady herself as she prepares to engage with his legendary grandfather.

Ben returns to his seat, oblivious throughout their lunch even as he never lets go of her hand under the table, as she and Anakin Skywalker resume their careful dance.

Her tone as they converse as the waiters serve their delicious meal, says ‘welcome, honoured elder.’

Her smile, which never reaches her eyes, says ‘fuck off and die.’

She rues the day Vader had decided to take a renewed interest in his ‘dear boy’, and she’s no intention of letting him win. Secure in the knowledge of all they’d become to each other, all they’d built together, all they’d become, together, secure in the knowledge of their history and with the support of their true families, both hers and his, in her corner, she’s no intention of letting Vader touch the future they'd fought so hard to secure.

She’d won Ben Solo fair and square and she wasn’t giving him up.

It’s a refrain that echoes through her brain increasingly that fall, now that all the major hurdles - not that they’d been that extensive – have been overcome. It’s a refrain that echoes through her as she ponders, slowly, deliberately and openly, at least with herself, as to what, exactly, she’s looking for; in terms of her life, in terms of her relationships, in terms of her career.

It’s a refrain that echoes through her as she decides what it is, exactly, she wants and what it is, exactly, that she can’t live without.

Professionally, it’s the easiest, to determine her future. She enjoys performing, feeling the crowd move to her voice, enjoys that indescribable feeling when she can tell she has them in the palm of her hand. Loves it, really. She doesn’t love the grind, though, the nightly demands for her time, for her to perform at the whim of her audience, doesn’t enjoy the weight of the expectations they put on her to be what they need, what they want. The way their expectations for her build up in their minds until they don't see her, not really, but see instead what they want to project.

She’d been moving away from that, even before Ben, having reached a compromise of recording her first album and setting out her first, _limited_ , performance schedule that fall, as she and Rose both moved into more a mentoring role for the new, hungry talent that fills the club. Rose, she thinks, needs the adrenaline from performing more than she does – she hadn’t enjoyed the recording process, Rose, found it too restrictive, technically - but they’ve both persevered and she feels they’re both on the same path. She’s confident that both will find a balance that doesn’t rely on them both performing every night in smokey clubs filled with strangers with grabby, sweaty hands staring at them as they would programmable automatons for much longer.

In any case, they’ve all reached the point, her, Rose, Finn, where they are no longer dependent on that, on the nightly response to their performances. They’ve worked hard, this past year, investing in the future of the club and the future of the singers they’ve brought up behind them, so that they can all take a step back, move into a supervisory role should they choose, choose which nights they work, limit it entirely to special occasions, should they choose, even. They could walk away, even, should they choose, though she doubts any of them would, or at least not fully. 

They’ve come a far way, the three of them, from their hungry, striving days on Corsuscant’s club scene, when they’d all bounced from club to club to club each night, performing at any number of them just to make it by, make enough for rent and stage costumes and, mostly, food. Come far, even, from those first days after taking over the Takodana, when they’d screamed at each other nightly as they tried to figure out the accounting procedures and inventory and staffing schedules and purchasing policies before, exhausted, they’d worked the night through, Rose and her on stage, as Finn staffed the bar when they couldn’t yet afford to hire more staff even as business exploded. It had taken a while, to get the club to this point, even with the three of them working in tandem, and it took a lot now, to keep it at its place as Coruscant's most notable, and notorious, nightspot, but that didn't mean they had to be physically tied to it, anymore. 

They were free to dream their own dreams now. 

They weren’t in that desperation mode anymore, as much as a part of her mourned the echoes of those days. She forced herself instead to remember the exhaustion, of the three of them at five in the morning, draped over the bar after closing up, trying desperately to remember why they’d chosen this path and laughing hysterically - it had been easier than crying. In many ways, they were closer than ever, now, since they could take the time to care for each other without the extreme exhaustion that had dragged them all down, as the joy they enjoyed with their success mixed with the relief of not having to fight for everything, every inch, _every single day_. 

Despite it all, they’d made it here, she’d made it here. She's reminded every day, that she shouldn't be this lucky. To have a career that fulfills her, filled with promise; to have every opportunity she’d ever dreamt of laid out in front of her. Blessed with a family that supports her, that cares for her, that fights for her. For which she’s proud to do the same.

Growing up in the hardscrabble atmosphere of Jakku, alone and determined, this was as far as she’d dared dream. Further, even, than she'd dared dream. She’d never thought about more, wasn't sure she'd had the capability of _wanting_ more.

About wanting a future where it might be possible to find someone who loved her the way she yearned to be loved.

Never dared think about what that might look like. Never dared think about what that might mean. And now, it’s here, and he worships her with his eyes and his body and his voice and his heart and his big, sexy brain every day and she finds herself, more and more, wondering if she might be able to do it. To take that final step, that leap of faith and claim him for good.

Fall comes early, to Coruscant, that year, and all but the sturdiest of leaves have fallen, laying down a carpet of red and gold, but the sun warms the oasis behind the old Solo brownstone one afternoon that September as Rey comes to terms with what it all might mean.

Late afternoon, the sun still warm as she’s cuddled in a red plaid blanket, snug in her lover’s lap in a Muskoka chair not meant for two, Rey buries her head in his chest and whispers her vows, finally answering the question he’s been asking, quietly, with his eyes, for weeks.

“Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

***

The sun shines brightly on the old imperial city the following spring equinox, despite the cold, as if to welcome them home. The day is warm, despite the chill that will come later, and the guests arriving at the long-awaited celebration to join Rey Niima to Ben Solo in formal wear made of light flowing fabrics in bright colours as they chatter among themselves about omens and well-wishes. About celebrations and legacies and springs and rebirths.

About hope.

Waiting in the alcove of the old temple, Rey can’t help but be nervous, despite the reassuring bulk at her side, looming over her. The long skirts of her ivory dress tangle with her delicate veil, even as Rose rushes to straighten it behind her and make sure it's secured in the ties of her tiara before proceeding her down the aisle, filled with golden light that reflects through the high stained-glass windows set so far above the congregation that their detail is hard to see. She leaves Rey then, with her escort, who, despite his experience with such matters, looks as nervous as she is, clearing his throat as the music swells in welcome.

It's their cue. 

“So, um... ah, pumpkin, please don’t-"

Rey looks up at her future father-in-law as he frantically searches the pockets of his tux for a tissue, desperate to comfort her in the face of her tears. She has to laugh even as the tears spill down her cheeks, even as she dabs carefully at her cheeks with the tips of her fingers, mindful of the light make-up that dusts her glowing skin.

“Okay,’ he gifts that half-smile, crooked in the way that reminds her of Ben. ‘If I mess this up, Leia will have my head. Just- in case we haven’t said it enough, we’re so glad to have you here. We just wanted to tell you that. So, um - Welcome to the family, kiddo.”

He leans into her to gently hug her as he busses her cheek before lifting the veil into place – _something burrowed_ \- lets it settle, lets her twitch the final edges of it into place, before leading her out to face the gathered company waiting for them to emerge.

It’s so different, this moment, than anything before, the alien feeling of the veil which impedes, if barely, her vision, casting a gauzy feeling over everything, the train of her wedding gown cascading behind her as she teeters, slightly, in the high heels she’s worn a million times.

 _Something old_.

She clings to that feeling, of knowing, of welcoming, that Han had gifted her, as they proceed down the aisle, staring at Ben's tall form as he stands by the officiant, with Finn at his side, as she walks forward slowly, the entire gathering standing to turn and watch her approach. She’d been worried, about this moment, worried that the attention of so many eyes on her outside of the stage would reawaken old fears of being judged, of being found wanting, but there’s only love and joy in the eyes of those gathered for her wedding celebration, only admiration and soft, gentle tears.

‘Dearly Beloved,’ she thinks she hears the officiant say as he opens the ceremony after she turns to face Ben, Han having pressed her hand into his son’s before retreating down the steps to join Leia and the remainder of Ben’s family in the front row, but it’s mainly a blur.

Handing off her bridal bouget with its trailing ice-blue ribbons – _something blue_ – to Rose, who takes her place at her side as she'd done for her the previous year, she concentrates on the pressure of Ben’s hand on hers. She’s afraid, almost, of meeting his eyes as she turns to face him, choosing instead to stare straight instead, to face his chest, before he reaches gently to raise her veil and place it back over her head to flow down her back, and she raises her eyes to his. It’s hard, to some extent, to keep her gaze focused completely on his face, hard to face the adoration she sees emanating from his eyes and look at the gentle smile on his lips, but she does, and the reward is everything she could ever have wanted.

Everything settles into place, in that moment, the nerves and anxiety melting away, as he gazes at her with such love, gifting her with the smallest of winks to reassure her, the cocky Solo attitude he’d inherited despite himself from his father shining through, as always, at unexpected moments.

‘Rey,’ he says, before beginning his vows, and she forgets why she was so nervous in the moments before.

Forgets why she hadn’t set her sights on making it to this moment from the instant she’d met him; why she wonders if she actually had. 

There’s a strength in her voice, as she projects her voice carefully as she recites her vows, as she utilizes every moment of her vocal training in this moment so that all might hear her. To make sure everyone hears, clearly, down the length of the nape of the temple, as she claims him for her own. As she makes it clear to all and sundry, exactly who she’s claiming.

‘I, Rey Niima, take you, Ben Solo-’

Later, at the conclusion of the ceremony, when the simple gold band of her wedding ring – _something new_ \- nestles in next to the emerald engagement ring that catches the light as she moves her hand, as she reaches up to slide her hand into the dark hair that curls at the nape of Ben’s neck while he kisses her in front of the gathered dignitaries, as she hears their roar of approval echo through this ancient, holy place, she feels the serenity that flows naturally from the sense of coming home.

His hand, gentle on her neck in return, feels like it was meant to be, feels like it was always meant to be, holding her in place, anchoring her in hope.

His lips taste of joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wishing you all the best for 2021! 
> 
> May it be a time of hope and joy!


	5. Icy Springs

The unsigned divorce papers sit disregarded, on Rey's counter, those following months, though sometimes she fears they might be mocking her.

 _It's just paper_ , Rey, she reminds herself. _It can only hurt you if you let it._

She has other things to concern herself with - Leia has her hands full with Han, as he recovers from the pneumonia he'd picked up from his (somewhat rash) decision to go fishing up north, so it's easy to work in supporting her mother-in-law into her schedule, along with her responsibilities with the club, nights with Finn and Rose and the burgeoning recording schedule - so her days are busy, just as she prefers. It's only the nights when the ghosts haunt her, when she comes home to her 'home', cold and bereft and too big for her to be rattling around by herself. 

She deals with that by avoiding it as much as possible, at night, choosing instead to spend her nights at the club or the recording studio instead, hiding from herself and the memories until it's late enough to see the sun popping up as she finishes her coffee at the all-night diner down the street, sometimes letting the staff there nag her into eating an egg or two.

It's just easier then, to walk into the place she'd loved since the moment she'd walk into it, walk into it and ignore the way her voice echoes through the empty space since the sun at least, is there to welcome her home. Since the sun, at least, will be there to warm her bed and caress her face. It's still hard to fall asleep in that empty bed, but at least the sun slanting through the generous windows does a better job of keeping the ever-lurking ghosts and the memories of Ben's quiet laughter at bay. 

So, the papers sit, unsigned, on her counter, joined by the usual correspondence that it's hard to avoid these days, as she waits, and waits, and waits. for what, she's not sure - she often feels like she's living in limbo - but she knows, somehow, that there's a reason for it, and so she waits.

It’s habit, more than anything else, that has her tossing away yet another richly embossed envelope, the latest in an unending series and unopened as usual, on her way out the door one glorious spring morning. 

As usual, it's postmarked with the return address of one of Coruscant’s leading law firms- not Ben’s, she notes. (Those she always opens, even if the paper cuts through her.) She’d no dealings with this law firm, knew of it only through the reports she’d heard on the daily news. It was hard to imagine someone who hadn’t heard of Snoke, LLC, especially given the history of court wins and dirty dealing for which they were widely known. 

For which they’d often been sanctioned and yet – 

For which their services are widely sought. 

Well – whatever Snoke wanted with her, she’s no interest in finding out. She’d no doubt it would be nothing she’d welcome. It was probably rash, but after she'd opened the first to find a request, vague in details, for a meeting, she'd decided not to worry about it. She'd passed it on to her lawyer - apparently Snoke refused to disclose any details to him either - and then stopped worrying about it. If they wanted to sue her, she and Poe would receive a summons soon enough. So, as she had with the multiple communiques that had come before, these last few months, she did what she always did, dropping the heavy missive in the trash where it joined the orange peels and coffee grounds from her breakfast. 

Anyway, she thought, as she buttoned her coat on her way out the door, her gloves and clutch in hand, she’d better run. She was already late.

The spring weather was only partially responsible for the gentle bounce in her step as she walked towards the town car that awaited her. Traffic was light, this early in the day, and the car sped her quickly through town, even as she looked out the window and smiled as the city streets whizzed by. 

Hopeful, she daydreamed a little. 

It had been Ben’s invitation to meet at the upscale luncheon club frequented by Coruscant high society and this, despite everything, despite the way he’d sent over the signed divorce papers, despite the garish diamond ring on Bazine’s left hand when she’d last seen her, despite the way he’d dodged her phone calls and had Mitaka screen her calls and despite how desperate he had long seemed to make sure to never again be alone in her presence, despite how he had hurt her, again and again and again, despite all of that, she was hopeful. She was driving to meet with her estranged husband in the clear sun of day for a lunch at his club, a lunch he’d expressively invited her to, in the hopes that they might talk. 

Of their future. 

She couldn’t imagine he’d do it, all of that, if the future he spoke of was one where they didn’t face it together. He’d promised her forever and a day and all together it had been less than three years since Ben had wormed his way into her life. 

She intended to make sure he came through on his promises.

If nothing else, Rey always claimed what she was owed.

The shock she felt, therefore, upon walking in through the richly dressed dining room – all gold and white – to find not only Ben, but also his grandfather and a third man, one she didn’t know, aged almost beyond believing and dressed in black from head to toe and with a sniveling expression which chilled her from head to, seated at a table for four, was intense.

As unwelcome as was the presence of his grandfather – again, she had to resist the urge to rip the skin off his very _face_ – at least she knew where she knew what to expect, with Anakin Skywalker. Lord Vader was a known factor and his objectives had always been crystal clear, at least to her. This third man sitting with them – she had no idea who this man was – no idea what his agenda was.

‘Ben,’ she greeted the only one of interest there, at least to her. 

He rose, as they all did, to be fair, though again, Ben was the only one on which she was able to focus. Ushering her into her seat, though, as he gently slid it in she felt it, the lack of his lips on her cheek as he sat her solicitously, and the spot where he should have done so was as chilled as it would have been heated had he kissed her as he should have done. 

As he always had. 

Looking at him, now, she wondered, exactly, what trap she had walked into when she’d agreed to come here today. She didn’t know what game he was playing suddenly, but he had clearly something up his sleeve, and she girded herself for battle even as she looked across the table at his kinsman. 

‘Lord Vader.’

‘Ms. Niima.’

‘Mrs. Solo,’ she corrects her grandfather-in-law, softly but firmly.

‘Indeed,’ the third man mused, though far from critically, and she didn’t fully approve of the assessing gleam in his eye.

_Who is this man?_

_Why is here?_

‘ _Mrs. Solo_ , this is Sheev Palpatine.’

_And why did both Ben and his grandfather look so determined to gain his approval?_

‘Perhaps you’ve heard of me,’ the dark, oily, aged man sitting opposite her oozed. ‘A long time ago, I was especially well-known in this city.’

 _What is this? Ben look at me_ , she screamed internally, trying to make him hear it, as if she could pound it into his head telepathically. As if she could only make him hear her.

_Ben, what is this? What have you done?_

‘Perhaps,’ she said quietly, looking over this ornately appointed table in this upscale club, vividly aware that she didn't have home field advantage, looking at this man who suddenly seemed to be intruding into her life, wondering why she couldn't stop the chills coursing through her, ‘Ben hasn't mentioned it. I’m new to Coruscant. I’ve only been here a few years."

All true, and -

I’m afraid,’ she said, digging in the knife a bit, ‘I’m not all the way up on ancient gossip.’ 

_Let him see what I’m capable of. Let them all see. What I can be capable of. If you need me to._

‘Indeed,’ Palpatine said, again with the assessing gleam, disturbing in the way it focuses on her. ‘Which is why I’ve been writing you. I had hoped that we might do lunch, in order that I might acquaint you. With old gossip. And ancient history. Although, _my child_ , I think you’ll soon find that this ancient history has implications. For the present. And for the future. For us all.’

He smiled, though from her perspective it was more of a smirk, as he twists in the knife in return.

‘We are so glad to meet you, my dear, _dear child_."

_He's been writing her? But that means-_

"I believe my old friend Snoke has been trying to get a hold of you? The relief I felt, the deep, deep relief, I felt when he was able to find you, my dear, my only _granddaughter,_ I truly cannot express.'

His smirk shows every one of his teeth.

'I understand this must be a shock, I do wish you'd responded to his letters. We've lost so much time, my dear. I'd hate to waste more.’

She doesn't remember running.

Apparently, the staff at this upscale restaurant are superbly trained. She doesn’t even make it to the coat check before they’re trying to call her a doctor, a cab, her driver, a friend, her mother, whatever she needs. Vaguely, as if through a long tunnel, she hears one of the wait staff tell a bell boy that she'd never see anyone go that pale that quickly before. 

She’ll call Leia later, she tells them, these generous, helpful people she's trying to escape as they buzz around her. Right now, she just needs her coat. Just needs to get home, where she can try desperately to get warm despite the ice in her veins, where she can try desperately to think. Objectively that part of her brain which stands by to the bitter end as a survival mechanism, recognizes that it’s shock, what she’s experiencing now, tries to snap her out of it, or, at least, tries to keep her functional _enough_ to get someplace _safe_ , someplace that is not _here_. 

_How the fuck long does it take to get someone’s coat_ , that part of her brain screams, as the rest of her body tries to shut down all non-essential facilities as the micro-shivers pass through her, causing her entire being to vibrate slightly. She can’t make it stop, no matter what, can’t make her body stop trying to do whatever the hell it needs to do to warm itself up. 

_Tap, tap, tap_ goes her stupid, impractical high-heeled boot - _why the hell did I wear these, what the hell had I been thinking? Just because they made my legs look a million miles long. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._ \- on the marble floor of the foyer by the coat check. She has to get out of here, now, before he comes, before he catches up to her, and the coat check is taking. So. Damn. Long. 

Do the people holding onto the coats not realize? She was in danger here, and her body, at least, recognized it. Her flight or fight response is at an all-time high, and she has to get out of here immediately before she shatters like the glass had in her hand as she’d listened to Palpatine speak of DNA tests and old flames. 

He – 

He’d been here all the time. This entire time. The entire time she’d thought – 

Her wedding – 

She'd invited him to her wedding - to be fair, they'd invited the entirety of Coruscant high society - and he hadn’t said shit, just R.S.V.P.'d no and – 

She could feel it again; as her breath hitched and caught and she reminded herself of all she’s learned, these past years, about controlling panic attacks. 

_Breathe._

_In – one, two, three, four, five. Out – one, two, three, four, five._

_Breathe._

_In – one, two, three, four, five. Out – one, two, three, four, five._

Objectively, she’d learned that panic attacks affect different people differently, that they have different impacts depending on one’s physiology and trauma. That they were triggered, depending on the person, by different stimuli and that they needed to be treated differently, depending on the person. That there was no cure-all, just that some techniques helped some people and that some did not, and that you had to find the treatment or treatments or management techniques, that worked for you. 

It had taken a while, but she’d found that conscious breathing worked for her - as well as cold, ironically - and she focused on that now. 

(When she woke up in the middle of the night, four three days later, panicking because she didn’t recognize the bed she’d found herself in, because she was so exhausted she couldn't understand why she was waking alone, she used the technique again, and though it took longer and was less effective, it still worked. Somewhat. Enough that she was grateful for it.)

_Breathe._

_In – one, two, three, four, five. Out – one, two, three, four, five._

_Breathe._

_In – one, two, three, four, five. Out – one, two, three, four, five._

_Breathe._

‘Rey!’

Fuck. 

Her time had run out. 

_Breathe._

_In – one, two, three, four, five. Out – one, two, three, four, five._

_Breathe._

_In – one, two, three, four, five. Out – one, two, three, four, five._

_Breathe._

She's only a second away from walking away - she'll get home without her coat, it's not necessary, she's broken anyway - when Ben is there, suddenly, grabbing her by her shoulders, and she guesses he’s only an instant from kissing her, so she shifts slightly, so that it’s not easy, so that he ends up missing her mouth, kissing her just off the side of it, though she’s limp and placid in his grasp as he pulls her in to hold her, holding her slight, unresisting form in his arms as he grasps her fully. 

Incredulous with joy, unbelieving, amazed, delighted, she’d run out of adjectives before she’d be able to describe Ben Solo in that moment as he hugs her. 

Incandescent joy. 

That’s how she would describe him. Simply, uncontrollably, unreservedly, full of joy and delight and relief. She’s never seen him like this, had never thought to. His joy with her had always been of quiet centres and open hearts, not this unreserved, almost manic, joy that she reads in him now. She’d never seen him this open, this relieved, this open, this _happy_ , not even on their wedding day. The moment Palpatine had announced that he'd recognized her as his granddaughter at that table, it had been as if every weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Even as she'd had felt as if the entire planet had landed on her chest.

‘I know it’s a shock, baby-‘

_Fuck, she’s going to throw up._

‘- and I know his timing sucks, and I know he’s a manipulative old bastard, but don’t you see, none of that matters now. Perfect. It’s all perfect. We can be together. Finally, together. It doesn’t matter how we get here; doesn’t matter what they think, what they want. Forget it all, forget the past and their stupid feuds - my parents, Vader, your grandfather. We’ll forge our own future, together. Just the way we always wanted.’

He holds her away from him to squat down to look at her, the poisoned delight shining out of his beautiful brown eyes, before hauling her back to plant a smacking kiss on her lips as she stands limp in his arms. 

‘I’ve got to get back to them, but I’ll be over tonight. We can make all our plans. Throw away the divorce papers, sweetness, I’m coming home. Better yet; sign the papers - we’ll get married again, throw the biggest party this town has ever seen - rub it all in their faces.’

He runs back to appease Palpatine and his grandfather, his delight in this turn of events so palpable it is almost physical, so apparent she can almost see him rub his hands together with glee. 

She barely makes it, as she hops over the counter that separates the coat clerk area from the lobby; her body in her discreet cocktail dress and designer high heels laying across the cool stone as she desperately aims for the small, fashionable garbage can hidden under the overhang as she throws up every last morsel of food she’d eaten in the last forty-eight hours. 

It hammers in her head, over and over and over and over and over and over again, the sly note in her _grandfather's_ voice as he’d leaned over to her, so pleased to have given her the happy news, the ultimate, perfect, unexpected culmination to every dream she could ever have had.

They’d been in this city, together, this entire time. Every moment since she’d arrived as a terrified, starving child of 17. Every time she’d wished for family or history or closure. Every time she’d wished she’d had someone to tell her place in all of this. Every time she’d wished for a family to lend her an attentive ear or a warm hand. 

Her fucking wedding. He’d been invited to her fucking wedding. Invited and had decided _not_ to attend, apparently having decided that flying back from abroad had been more problematic than making himself known, than supporting her. That moment, when, despite herself, when she’d wished for family to fill out her side of the aisle. Her side of the church that had seemed so woefully underfilled, despite Rose and Fin and Armitage and Chewie and Lando Calrissian and all the other family friends that Han and Leia had insisted on filling it with. 

He could have been there, her _family_ , hell, he could have stood with her, given her away, stood in as loco parentis, could have stood as support for her. Instead, he’d declined the invitation to join them, even as a guest, even as a not particularly honoured one, chosen to remain as far from her family, old or new, as humanly possible. Even then he’d known. Even then he’d made the choice. 

To keep watch from afar as his closest kin has married into the Organa – Skywalker - Solo clan. 

Watched and knew, and said nothing, as he'd done as his granddaughter struggled on alone, every moment of her life. 

In Jakku. 

In Coruscant.

In his _hometown_. 

She’d the proof in her pocket: a copy of her mother’s signed statement confirming it, in her last letter to her estranged father, Sheev Palpatine, as she'd told him of the birth of her daughter, Rey. 

Rey. 

Rey Palpatine Niima. 

She threw up into the cheap, golden-gilded garbage bucket again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hurt me?

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by a Folklore song, obviously, I never thought I would love a Taylor Swift song that much - thanks Reylos :)  
> Just an FYI, this has a HEA but I am going to make it the most melodramatic, angstry, angry fic I can imagine, just because - 2020. Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> Come see me at [@RandomBks if you want to scream at me.](https://twitter.com/RandomBks)


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